


For Hours on Empty

by musicalgirl4474



Series: Febuwhump 2021 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control, Protective Dean Winchester, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29155689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicalgirl4474/pseuds/musicalgirl4474
Summary: Febuwhump day 1: Mind ControlIt wasn’t supposed to be like this. Then again, witch cases rarely went the way they were supposed to. Always a familiar or an accomplice or an unreasonably loyal spouse. Though rarely was the accomplice your own mind-controled self.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Febuwhump 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140197
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	For Hours on Empty

**Author's Note:**

> It's another Whump-month. Fair warning, I'm full-time student teaching with 3-hour long classes in the evenings. Most of these are going to be short, and possibly late.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Then again, witch cases rarely went the way they were supposed to. Always a familiar or an accomplice or an unreasonably loyal spouse. Though rarely was the accomplice your own fucking mind-controled self.

Sammy was bleeding, plaid overshirt full of blood as Dean did his best ( _not good enough, never good enough_ ) to pull the blade out of his brother’s shoulder without causing any more damage. His hands were already slick with blood, none of it his, because Sam had refused to do anything to save himself from his _mind controlled_ brother. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Goddamn it Sammy,” he rasped. “You’re supposed to be the smart one, why the hell didn’t you fight back?”

“Didn’t want to hurt you,” Sam said, voice heavy with pain.

“Stupid,” Dean retorted. The witch was on the ground behind them; he’d have to make sure to salt-and-burn the corpse before blowing out of this place.

“Your head okay?” Sam asked, and wasn’t that just like his little brother, bleeding all over the damn shag carpet and asking Dean if _he_ was okay.

“My mind’s been my own since you ganked the bitch,” he said, peeling back the ragged edges of Sammy’s shirt. “We need to get back to the motel and get you patched up.” Dean ignored Sam’s half-hearted protests that he wasn’t little anymore, but didn’t ignore the way he flinched as he folded himself into the Impala.

They drove in silence, and Dean let his mind pull him back. He had been cocky, so sure that the witch would be no real danger, just a former suburban mom with a few too many wine-drenched dreams and enough desperation to deal with demons. Sam had been more unsure, pointing out that she had killed people (“Unsuspecting people Sammy,” Dean had said, flippant. “We know what we’re doing”).

Apparently they _hadn’t_ known what the fuck they were doing, because the damn witch had only needed a handful of his hair (which had hurt, by the way, fucking ouch) to make him take a backseat in his own goddamned mind. Or . . . not quite. He had known he didn’t need to be afraid of Sam, but his body hadn’t seemed to understand. All Dean knew was that his adrenaline level had climbed and he’d been so sure for a moment that Sam was an enemy. A moment that had stretched, and Dean could have sworn he had some kind of control at the time, but now his memories were a blur until the point where Sam’s bullet had found the witch’s brain.

What he did know was that the knife that had been in Sam’s shoulder had been in his own waistband before it all went stupendously sideways.

His knuckles felt bruised, as if they had recently come into contact with something solid. Sammy’s cheek was starting to color with a heavy bruise. Fuck. _Fuck_. The rest of the drive was Dean swearing internally (at himself, at the witch, at the world, at their fucked up excuse for a _life_ ), getting as far through his repertoir as ‘fuck it upside-down, backwards and sideways with a goddamned cactus’, before pulling into the motel parkinglot. 

Dean had never hated this life, not like Sam had. But, he thought as he parked the impala in front of their room, it wouldn’t take too many more of these mind-control episodes for him to start grumbling. He hefted Sam out of the passenger seat, grinning at the indignant sounds.

“I can get myself into the room,” Sam said, despite the fact that Dean was _definitely_ carrying most of his not-inconsiderable weight. Dean didn’t dignify the lie with a response. He wondered what other wounds he had inflicted on his brother. He’d been worrying about the knife and the obvious blood and torn flesh, but Sam moved like his ribs were broken and maybe a few other things.

The door was easy to open, and it says something that Dean is used to opening doors with Sam’s dead-weight against his side. Either he needs to look after his brother better, or . . . no, no ‘or’, he just needs to look after Sammy better. _And not be the goddamn reason he’s hurt in the first place_.

He dumps Sam on the bed furthest from the door and goes to get the triage kit from the bathroom. He takes a moment to stare at his own face in the mirror. He looks remarkably uninjured. The skin of his neck looks a little red, and Dean gets a flash of hands against his throat trying to push him away. He blinks away the memory. Sam needs him here-and-now, not obsessing over whatever had happened.

Sam seems nearly asleep when Dean re-enters the room, hair a tangled mess against a white pillow case. “Dude,” he says, “you’re supposed to keep pressure on that wound.”

“I am,” Sam mutters. “Just . . . resting my eyes.”

“You’re resting all of you,” Dean said, pressing his hand against Sam’s where it’s gone lax on top of the rag over the shoulder wound. Sam grits his teeth against pain but doesn’t make a sound, eyes opening.

“Shut up,” he says.

Dean just shrugs and opens the kit. There’s whiskey on the nightstand, and suture material to sanitize with it, but first he takes a swig. Steady hands. He needs steady hands for this. There’s still a frantic energy buzzing in the back of his mind. Ignore it. No matter how many times he’s fixed up a wound (his own, dad’s, Sammy’s), it still takes all of his concentration. Suturing the human body isn’t exactly brainless work, no matter how much muscle memory his hands had.

It wasn’t until he was tying off the bandage that his hands started shaking again. Sam grabbed the trembling fingers and squeezed tightly, smiling up at Dean. Smiling at him as if Dean wasn’t the reason Sam was hurt.

“Hey,” his brother said, puppy-dog eyes turned up to fucking _eleven_. “It’s not your fault.”

Dean felt something tighten in his chest. “No chick-flick moments dude,” he said gruffly, struggling to get the words out past the blockage somewhere around his lungs.

Sam’s mouth thinned unhappily, but thank god he didn’t say anything more, just closed his eyes.

“Anything else in need of fixing before I go back to clean things up?” Dean hoped Sam would tell him if there was. Way things had been recently though, he might not. Still, couldn’t let the police find the mess they’d left behind.

“Nah, I’ll be good.”

“You’re not hiding anything are you Sammy?”

Hazel eyes cracked open, annoyance flitting across his little brother’s face. “I’m not an idiot, I would tell you if anything needed immediate attention, Dean.”

He wouldn’t. Dean knew that. Still, he took it at face value. Nothing else he could do.


End file.
